The Raconteur
by newbluemoon
Summary: Joker tells a spooky story in honour of Halloween. Slash. PWP. Disclaimer- not mine. Didn't happen.


Author's note: This was written for the Halloween anonymous contest over at BatmanJoker on LJ, so it's really rushed and short (it had a 2500 word limit). Also it was written in the first person and in present tense- something I hate doing, so it's possibley crazy shit. But oh well, I hope it doesn't suck like a whore :D. There probably will be loads of mistakes too, but I'm just toolazy to re-read again it and it's unbeta'd. But I'm sure you'll live :D

Have you ever had that feeling when every inch of you tingles like someone threw a bucket of icy water over you? Where it's as though the freezing claws of the wind have grabbed you by the back of the neck and you just know that you're not alone? And then ,when your breathing has gotten as shallow and harsh as a working hooker, out of the inky darkness comes a looming black figure with the horns of a demon and the blue eyes of an angel and you're just waiting for the bruising blow that's coming you way? _No?_ Well, that's not really surprising- I was always going to experience different things from the average hack who moulds themselves to fit into their neighbour's ideals and ,let's face it, that's you. If it wasn't, you'd be out here on the wet rooftops making things sparkle- _like me- _and not sat at home on your mundane backside reading this.

But since I have your attention and it is the season of candy, horror movies, commercialised mischief and savage massacres (for those who _mean_ it), I'll tell you a _spooooky_ story. So make yourself comfy-monkey, remove your head from your ass and I'll begin.

Like any good story, it starts with a big bang; two entities colliding fiercely and the viscous explosion that follows. And the universe born out of it? Well, that's where the horror begins. You see, when my other half and I first danced to the beat of a thousand corpses hitting the floor like a fallen house of cards, we felt the very atoms and carbon that make up our entities shift and change. I saw him, grim face, pointy ears, kevlar body, tan flesh, sparkly eyes and chain smoker voice and I knew instantly I'd found my ultimate freak._ Mine. Mine. Mine._ And I don't want to sound like a teenage girl on the set of some cheesy chick flick, but it was hate at first sight. And what a hatred it was! Burning, passionate, all consuming and it pulled us into its fiery blaze and burned away until it puked us back out and all that was left was, well, _us_. The rest of them; The Mob, The DA, Gordon, The Mayor, that flimsy little lady he got so angry about- just pawns. He knows it too, though he'd never admit it. He knows that in the end, all that matter is the two of us and who the winner will be.

But you see, I don't think either of us wants to win anymore. Sure, the small victories make you squeal with glee and tap dance to silent swing music, but in the final hoo-rah, would I really want my Bat to crumble? To dissolve into the pit of insanity that long ago I was sucked into? Would I want the performance to end and ,as the crowd goes wild and the curtains close, to stand and take my bow alone? Actually, I can't really think of many other things that I want less. Maybe right, _riiiight_ at the very start of out little,_ ahem_, affair, but not now. And I don't know if he knows it yet or not, but Batsy doesn't really want me to change and shape myself into another mirage of humanity either. See, the Bat and I were both born out of the same black hole of decay, despair and all things emo. And when everything you've ever known disintegrates in front of your innocently blind eyes ,and the sunshine-bright light that slices through cures you and you can see clearly, everything changes. The Bat sees now, but wants to take the truth and mould it into something 'better', wants to make a difference, whereas I _embrace_ the destruction. Fucking revel in it! And that's the difference between us. If I destroyed him and twisted him so that all remained was a broken version of me, he wouldn't be mine anymore. And that would be a fucking _disaster_! Just to simply imagine my Batsy, lying on some cold floor, a shell of his former greatness, his vulnerable humanity exposed like innards- it makes bile surge up into my throat. _Sickening._

So I'll take the small victories instead, like letting him simply glimpse the parasitic nature of mankind, or proving a point, or him taking off his cowl (that one was a shocker!), or him succumbing to all the urges that he's held for me since I scattered the blood of his love over his face and entering me in a raw fuck. Oh, you feel the _chills_ now, don't you? But it was just so inevitable! I could see it in his eyes each time we tangoed and I _knew_. But when I heard his low breath next to my ear and could actually feel his hardness even through that thick Kevlar, I realised that the game was on. And why shouldn't you mix business with pleasure? Especially when your pleasure _is_ your business. Every single time, it's just perfect. Absolute beautiful chaos building between us for many sweaty heartbeats until it explodes into utter bliss. And isn't that just what I've been trying to show you all, all this time?

But, somewhere along the line, it stopped being a meeting of Kevlar and greasepaint in dank dirty alleys behind a dumpster in a collision almost as brutal as our fights, and it was suddenly a slow joining of flesh on flesh, scars touching scars and sickeningly soft kisses. Instead of grunts and animalistic snarls, there were euphoric moans and cries of 'Bruce' and not 'Bats'. He would no longer shove my face up against a rough brick wall where the friction would cause blood to ooze down onto my laughing grin as he forced himself into me with a guttural growl, but instead we'd become tangled in cool, silk sheets and he'd caress parts of me people recoil from in horror. And my brain would scream at me to leave, because this isn't what I signed up for, but I never did, because the really scary part? The bit that turns my body into a gooey mess of shivering nerves? I've known for a while now. It won't fucking leave me alone. It stalks me as I sleep and lurks in the corners of my waking hours, never relenting.

You see, I'm in love with him.

Not the kind of love that you think you possess when your fuck your honey in a sleazy motel or when some _clone_ sends you cotten candy-pink flowers that fill up some empty corner of your crusty heart. But _love_. The aching, bruising, ferocious, omnipotent type that rips out all of those precious, fragile emotions from the vault where you thought you buried them years ago and lets them bleed open for everyone to see. _That_ kind of love. And it's fucking petrifying.

But since it's the season of bad will, I figure, why should I be the only one to enjoy this terrifying_...'gift'_? So, off I go on my way to Batsy's resting spot, dressed to the nines. Well, it _is_ Halloween, how could I _not_ dress up? It's a deliciously short, tight cheerleader's number today. Granted, it doesn't have the timeless appeal of that classic nurses outfit, but it looks a damn sight better on me than on that adorable, skinny little slut that _used_ to own it. When I get to Batsy's door, he opens it with false smile and a box of candy which drops to the floor, scattering a rainbow beneath our feet. Then ,as he stares as me, his jaw follows and I ask him those three infamous words. Most people don't prepare a 'trick', which is just the epitome of modern laziness and cowardice if you ask me, but of course, I have one up my sleeve. But Bats won't pick 'trick', and why should he? I give him one of those everyday of the year. Besides, he's looking at me like _I'm_ the treat he wants to unwrap and devour and that's a lot more appealing at the moment.

He drags me through the mansion's threshold with such a harsh yank that I actually yelp and pushes me hard against the expensively decorated walls. His mouth is on me in a bruising meeting of lips and tongue and I know instantly we won't make it upstairs. Fine with me. I have my Bat, and if the way he's kissing me is anything to go by, this it going to be _really_ fucking good. Brucey's tongue is pushing against mine and he's moaning softly as my senses go into complete overdrive. He's all around me, covering me, consuming me and I _let him_. The musky scent of leather tickles my nostrils, his husky moans kiss my ears and his taste of apples, spearmint and raw lust fills my mouth. And his _touch_! Every last one of my nerve endings are buzzing as his hands move over my trembling body. One is buried in my, unfortunately currently golden, curls (Bruce prefers it like that, so I oblige because I know _Batman_ prefers it green) and the other is moving slowly up my thigh and under my skirt.

He moans into my mouth as he discovers I'm wearing silky panties- _no_ they weren't the cheerleader's too, what kind of girl do you think I am? I suck in a breath as he runs his fingers over my achingly hard length and strokes me for a glorious few moments but then his patience crumbles under the whims of his own erection, which is grinding into me, and he removes his hand. Before I can whine at the loss, he's pulling my teeny-tiny top over my head and his mouth is attacking my neck and chest as he sheds his own clothes. We don't do this when we fuck on the job; only the vital pieces come off so that we can melt together as we indulge in our mutual desires. I think I prefer it this way though- I can feel his bare muscles, beautifully scarred skin and his chillingly human pulse and it sends me absolutely soaring. His mouth latches onto a nipple and I'm still not used to just how god damn pleasurable that can be.

His hand returns to its previous destination and he's pulling down those frilly undergarments and wraps his hand around me again, and I'm moaning. As he pulls me up, I wrap my legs around his muscled waist and he hitches up my skirt and we're going to do this with it on- the kinky shit! He has me lick his fingers and in a tortuously slow motion, he pushes them inside me, stretching me, preparing me. When I'm a gibberish mess and actually _begging_ him, he removes them and enters me in one quick thrust, still not as savage as out _there_. I practically sob as we move together because I wasn't lying when I said we complete each other and, as we join and pleasure slices through me, I can feel that completion building at the base of my throbbing cock.

When he simultaneously hits that spot inside me and wraps a hand around my arousal, I _do_ sob. I've never been one for the whole _'sex_' thing- it's messy, awkward, too human and I never know what to do with the body afterwards- but _this_, this here with my Bat is closer to that famed fairytale heaven than anybody will ever reach. He's moaning my name now, lacing it with dirty words and lusty breaths and making it sound like something special and extraordinary, which is a world away from how I'm used to hearing it. People shriek my name in horror, or spit it out in disgust, but not my Brucey. He calls out for me like I'm _needed,_ like I mean something and I find my self so overwhelmed by feelings I cannot fathom that I bury my head in his shoulder. Instantly, he shifts so that he can move a hand up to force me to look at him and the way his gorgeous eyes stare at me scares us both, so we disguise our emotions in a fiery kiss. I bite his lip open and let the tangy liquid flow into our mouths and purge us of this unfamiliarity, reminding us both exactly _what _we are underneath.

We're moving faster now, more desperate and my vision starts to go white. That's the thing about sex; once you start, you don't want it to ever stop and when it's over, even though your body's satisfied, you feel empty again because you're no longer a part of each other. So this part, the bit with the blinding light and surge after surge of perfect pleasure accumulating in pure release is the bit I both dread and long for. I suppose that's one of the reasons I allow this gentler side of out twisted couplings to happen- it means that in the after times when I'm feeling cold and more alone than I did before, Bruce will hold me and I'll be warm again. And now I know I'm reaching the edge because have you heard the way I'm talking? _Sheesh!_ Batsy must be there too because he's stroking me harder and cursing like a rapper. But when we finally peak and come in long glorious moments, the noises that come from him are the best I've ever heard from his perfect mouth and the look on his face would be enough to send me hurtling into an orgasm if I wasn't already spilling the product of our feverish meeting onto his hand with a low, desperate moan.

We fall down from our pleasure and his arms wrap around me, pulling me tight against his sweat-kissed body as our lips meet slowly. I feel him shudder beneath me and it's not because of the after-shocks of his orgasm- though I'm smug enough to believe that's a factor- it's because he feels the thing that's been haunting me and, like I said, it's positively_ terrifying_. So maybe this Halloween treat _was_ a trick in disguise, but then, what treat isn't? But if it _is_ a trick, it's one that both of us want more than absolutely anything. More than chaos. More than order, not that he's about to go telling me this any time soon. So as the comforting fear runs through his body, I start to laugh quietly because it's as though it's the climax of a scary movie and a hooker has been struck down in a bloody rain by a chainsaw wielding psychopath and there's nowhere to run. We're stuck like this in this horrifically perfect place forever and there's not a thing either of us can do about it. And as my laughter gradually gets louder and echoes chillingly through the empty house, I swear that just for a second, I can hear a soft chuckle from underneath me because he finally gets the punchline and suddenly it's not quite so scary anymore.


End file.
